POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817
543
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs—alone remain.
These tombs—alone remain.
II
Misery, my sweetest friend—oh, weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not! 10
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain— 15
These tombs—alone remain.
Misery, my sweetest friend—oh, weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not! 10
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain— 15
These tombs—alone remain.
OTHO
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, P. W., 1839, 1st ed.]
I
Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be,
Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim
From Brutus his own glory—and on thee
Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame:
Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail 5
Amid his cowering senate with thy name.
Though thou and he were great—it will avail
To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail.
Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be,
Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim
From Brutus his own glory—and on thee
Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame:
Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail 5
Amid his cowering senate with thy name.
Though thou and he were great—it will avail
To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail.
II
'Twill wrong thee not—thou wouldst; if thou couldst feel,
Abjure such envious fame—great Otho died 10
Like thee—he sanctified his country's steel,
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide,
In his own blood—a deed it was to bring[1]
Tears from all men—though full of gentle pride,
Such pride as from impetuous love may spring, 15
That will not be refused its offering.
'Twill wrong thee not—thou wouldst; if thou couldst feel,
Abjure such envious fame—great Otho died 10
Like thee—he sanctified his country's steel,
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide,
In his own blood—a deed it was to bring[1]
Tears from all men—though full of gentle pride,
Such pride as from impetuous love may spring, 15
That will not be refused its offering.
FRAGMENTS SUPPOSED TO BE PARTS OF OTHO
[Published by Dr. Garnett, Relics of Shelley, 1862,—where, however, only the fragment numbered ii. is assigned to Otho. Forman (1876) connects all three fragments with that projected poem.]
I
Those whom nor power, nor lying faith, nor toil,
Nor custom, queen of many slaves, makes blind,
Have ever grieved that man should be the spoil
Of his own weakness, and with earnest mind
Fed hopes of its redemption; these recur 5
Chastened by deathful victory now, and find
Foundations in this foulest age, and stir
Me whom they cheer to be their minister.
Those whom nor power, nor lying faith, nor toil,
Nor custom, queen of many slaves, makes blind,
Have ever grieved that man should be the spoil
Of his own weakness, and with earnest mind
Fed hopes of its redemption; these recur 5
Chastened by deathful victory now, and find
Foundations in this foulest age, and stir
Me whom they cheer to be their minister.
- ↑ Otho.—13 bring cj. Garnett; buy 1839, 1st ed.; wring cj. Rossetti.
